Tourist Trapped: Joe’s Crab Shack

Tourist Trapped is a weekly Culture Blog post in which Beth Spotswood visits San Francisco’s popular tourist destinations and reports back. This week: Joe’s Crab Shack.

I had never heard of Joe’s Crab Shack. I had never even seen Joe’s Crab Shack. But last night, my friend Big Chris and I dined at Joe’s Crab Shack. And it was a profoundly traumatizing experience.

Joe’s Crab Shack in located on the second story of a building overlooking Fisherman’s Wharf. Picture, if you will, a low-rent Bubba Gump’s Shrimp Shack. It’s still a shack, it’s just…worse. We decided on Joe’s Crab Shack because Big Chris had seen one “somewhere” and thought it would be “funny.”

“Trust me. It’s really weird inside.”

He was, of course, correct.

Wandering in off the street, we headed upstairs into a huge, open floor plan. Christmas lights and disco balls hung from the ceiling, a jet ski emerged from the wall and fishing nets were tossed with decorative abandon. No Doubt’s “Don’t Speak” blared from the sound system and we were seated at a table by someone wearing a “got crabs?” t-shirt.

Presented immediately with menus, it became abundantly clear that we were supposed to order huge cauldrons of crab and crawfish, wear bibs and drink brightly colored cocktails from jars. The restaurant was about half full, mostly with families but also featuring a few confused dates and a giant booth of nervous-looking businessmen, obviously there on some bad advice.

The subtle art of seafood.

Big Chris ordered “The Orleans Steampot” featuring one pound of crawfish, 12 shrimp, andouille sausage, fresh corn and potatoes “all spiced up.” It arrived in a big, blue pot, surrounded by netting and absent the corn, because Big Chris, for the first time in our decade of weird friendship, decided to have situational diverticulitis. Instead, he arranged for green beans.

I ordered a cheeseburger with a side of hushpuppies. Our server, who ripped off a piece of paper towel from the roll in our ‘table bucket’ and wrote her name down, was mildly appalled that we didn’t order any crab. This was, after all, a crab shack. And I am sure you’re bearing in mind that I’m recapping a dinner at a crab joint without bothering to try the crab and thus, haven’t a “crab” leg to stand on. That being said, our food was perfectly fine. It’s exactly what you’d expect from a chain restaurant with the word “shack” in its name.

All of a sudden, someone cranked the speakers and all of the servers broke into a dance.

I froze mid-bite, Big Chris didn’t react at all. He ripped apart his crawfish completely unfazed by Molly the server in the “got crabs?” t-shirt doing something called the “Cha Cha Slide” around the entirety of our table.

Some fellow patrons, all of whom were wearing “Let’s Get Crackin’” bibs, jumped up and joined in the “Cha Cha Slide.”

The music was so loud, everyone else had no choice but to stop what they were doing. Everyone but Big Chris, who’s life apparently involves “Cha Cha Slide” dance breaks every hour or so, as if he lives in one big, never-ending, DJ’ed wedding. I simply stared, going from my gaze across Joe’s Crab Shack over to Chris, chomping away on a spiced up potato.

“Take it back now, y’all. One hop this time.”

“You don’t find this odd?” I asked.

“What? The Cha Cha Slide?”

“Well, yeah.” I said. “In the middle of a restaurant.”

“I expect this.” Chris replied. “I do, however, find that odd.”

Big Chris possesses excellent observational skills, which is ideal in a dining companion as I like to talk about other people. Next to us was sitting a family of five, consisting of three women, a little girl and a middle-aged man who, at first glance, I thought might be homeless. Their server came over and proceeded to give them the Joe’s Crab Shack rundown.

Instantly on Team Diane, I shot Big Chris a look across the table, who promptly responded, “What’s wrong with Sweet and Sour sauce?”

“I know. I love Sweet and Sour sauce.”

“I’d drink it if I could.”

“I’d bathe in it.”

Borderline Homeless had thoughts on every item on the menu. “I’m not one for seafood. It’s not my cup of tea.”

Other things not included in BH’s cups of tea: shaving, listening, comfortable silence, personal space and probably, in all likelihood, tea. When BH alerted everyone within 50 yards that he was “hittin’ the men’s,” Big Chris immediately got up, pushed in his chair and said, “I’ll be right back.”

Forever dense, I hissed, “Follow him into the bathroom!”

“No s***, Sherlock.” Chris deadpanned. And off he went.

I give my good friend Big Chris a hard time, but at moments like this, when he’s willing to follow the weird guy at the next table into the men’s toilet just to see what happens, I offer a silent prayer of thanks to the heavens.

A few minutes later, Chris returned. “He wasn’t in there.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I am definitely sure. I checked.”

I can only imagine what that means, but Chris and I remained frozen, eyes locked when BH returned to his table and announced, “Ah, that’s better!”

This continued, weird moment after weird moment. On the other side of us, a gentleman closely guarded crab legs on his side of the table, and when his date wanted A BITE OF FOOD, she had to ask. At which point, the crab guarder would break off A leg, hand it to her, and watch her eat it.

I guess you could say I was kinda crabby.

Chris paid the bill and we swung by the Joe’s Crab Shack Shop, because I love to browse for junk.

“About Joe’s Crab Shack?” I looked at him over my shoulder. “It’s not really my cup of tea.”

*UPDATE: Apparently. 10 minutes after we left, two people were shot to death next door. To Joe’s Crab Shack. Where we JUST were.

Beth Spotswood has posted weekly on the Culture Blog for 4 years and still struggles when folks ask her to define “a blog.” None the less, she posts twice a week for SFGate and all day long over at her desk in the CBS San Francisco newsroom. You can follow her on Twitter, watch her co-anchor the political satire show Necessary Conversation or run into her in the real world, where she also exists.